"handkerchiefs" poems
You always looked good in dark suits with golden buttons on your cuff. Those were always a nice touch, to stand side your perfect figurine.
You were everything I once wanted. But now, you really aren't.
I see the rushing of the real truths of you, swell into your own hands, dropping a ball, losing your own special touch of sportsmanship with not much of a fuss. You're letting yourself lose the game.
Just letting ***** of truth squirt out through your veins.
You're losing your grip right out from your own polished finger tips and dripping red of blood.
You constantly try to pull white handkerchiefs of innocence from the wrists of your cuffs. But, those handkerchiefs are all just red...
Don't try and gamble a bad hand if you can't keep up. You never could keep a good bluff.
Apr 15, 2014
Apr 15, 2014 at 3:04 AM UTC
Spanish
Debout sur mon orgueil je veux montrer au soir
L'envers de mon manteau endeuillé de tes charmes,
Son mouchoir infini, son mouchoir noir et noir,
Trait à trait, doucement, boira toutes mes larmes.
Il donne des lys blancs à mes roses de flamme
Et des bandeaux de calme à mon front délirant…
Que le soir sera bon.. Il aura pour moi l'âme
Claire et le corps profond d'un magnifique amant.
English
Forsaking my pride, I want to show the night
The inside of my cloak, plunged in mourning for your charms.
Its infinite handkerchiefs, its handkerchiefs black and black,
Piece by piece, tenderly, will drink all my tears.
The night lays lilies upon my burning roses
And cool cloths upon my feverish brow…
How good the evening will be! It will have, for me,
The luminous soul, the profound body, of a magnificent lover.
6.7k
It's been a while.
Since I wrote a poem.
But not since I wrote about you.
I write about you all the time.
Every once in a while,
I forget why.
Then I remember why.
I remember you,
Or I see a picture.
I see your blond hair.
Your blue eyes.
You're the reason I have a type.
I think of your adventure,
And your shyness,
And your varying range of emotion.
I think of all these
Random memories,
Floating around in my head.
Like ping pong.
And capture the flag.
Like long flaring lights and computer bags.
Like fire escapes,
And hiding under tables,
Like missing you in winter with eyelashes like a fable.
Like long walks in the dark,
And hidden dark handkerchiefs with white polka dots.
Like plaid checkered jackets, even when it's hot.
Like cargo shorts and a white fedora.
Gathering under the arch like it's an agora.
Hiding that handkerchief between the flora.
God, I miss you more and more.
Months til I see you,
I'm down to only a few before.
I almost can't wait,
It makes me feel sad.
The fact that I'd leave,
Just like that.
Just so I could see you again.
It's Valentine's Day
And I'm here without you.
And I wish more than anything,
For that to not be true.
Feb 14, 2018
Feb 14, 2018 at 10:05 AM UTC
all things are useful, bulbs
bring light , denote ideas,
good intentions, spent,
collected.
cotton hankies, frayed hold the books,
yet those with nylon, stretch the skin
resulting in red and soreness.
shy away from dangerous commodities,
use the best, those tradtional artefacts
which are gentle on your soul, bring light.
wipe your nose clean.
sbm.
today we have added notes for your interest.
A HANDKERCHIEF (also called handkercher or hanky) is a form of a kerchief, typically a hemmed square of thin fabric that can be carried in the pocket or purse, and which is intended for personal hygiene purposes such as wiping one’s hands or face, or blowing one’s nose. A handkerchief is also sometimes used as a purely decorative accessory in a suit pocket. When used as an accessory to a suit, a handkerchief is known as a POCKET SQUARE. There are a wide variety of ways to fold a pocket square, ranging from the austere to the flamboyant.
The material of a handkerchief can be symbolic of the social-economic class of the user, not only because some materials are more expensive, but because some materials are more absorbent and practical for those who use a handkerchief for more than style. Handkerchiefs can be made of cotton, cotton-synthetic blend, synthetic fabric, silk, or linen.
Historically, white handkerchiefs have been used in place of a white flag to indicate surrender or a flag of truce; in addition to waving away sailors from port. King Richard II of England, who reigned from 1377 to 1399, is widely believed to have invented the cloth handkerchief, as surviving documents written by his courtiers describe his use of square pieces of cloth to wipe his nose.
Jun 9, 2014
Jun 9, 2014 at 1:33 AM UTC
Will it help?
If dams are made out of handkerchiefs
to hold floods of sufferings and griefs.
Will it help?
If murmurs are subdued within glasses of loyalty
to wash away the sins of ancient royalty.
Will it help?
If we break all ancient walls
to break barriers between hearts, wide and tall.
Will it help?
If we make some ground in oceans mixing 'self respect' and 'ancient sins'
or learn how to survive in waters without gills and fins.
Will it help?
If progeny is punished for their inherited guilt
and each drop of brutal blood is spilt.
Will you promise?
Then you will again find no reasons to divide
and live without any quarrel happily, satisfied.
I doubt!
As it has nothing to do with 'ancient walls' or 'ancient sins'.
It is something related to species and has nothing to do with genes.
Nov 11, 2014
Nov 11, 2014 at 9:24 PM UTC
Army men
City girls
Turned nurse
Hands held over
Slowly-contaminating
Breaths
Mason jar IVs
Cleansing white
Handkerchiefs
Masks
Yellow on white
Death in the air
Blood in my mouth
Hair
Lungs-everywhere
No new people
In months.
We know what it is.
We have Typhus
And it's not going away
Until it has ****** the breath from all of us
Until we are all dead
6 feet under
The ground
Apr 1, 2015
Apr 1, 2015 at 2:31 PM UTC
Yahya Kemal Beyatli translations
Yahya Kemal Beyatli (1884-1958) was a Turkish poet, editor, columnist and historian, as well as a politician and diplomat. Born born Ahmet Âgâh, he wrote under the pen names Agâh Kemal, Esrar, Mehmet Agâh, and Süleyman Sadi. He served as Turkey’s ambassador to Poland, Portugal and Pakistan.
Sessiz Gemi (“Silent Ship”)
by Yahya Kemal Beyatli
loose translation by Nurgül Yayman and Michael R. Burch
for the refugees
The time to weigh anchor has come;
a ship departing harbor slips quietly out into the unknown,
cruising noiselessly, its occupants already ghosts.
No flourished handkerchiefs acknowledge their departure;
the landlocked mourners stand nurturing their grief,
scanning the bleak horizon, their eyes blurring...
Poor souls! Desperate hearts! But this is hardly the last ship departing!
There is always more pain to unload in this sorrowful life!
The hesitations of lovers and their belovèds are futile,
for they cannot know where the vanished are bound.
Many hopes must be quenched by the distant waves,
since years must pass, and no one returns from this journey.
Full Moon
by Yahya Kemal Beyatli
loose translation by Nurgül Yayman and Michael R. Burch
You are so lovely
the full moon just might
delight
in your rising,
as curious
and bright,
to vanquish night.
But what can a mortal man do,
dear,
but hope?
I’ll ponder your mysteries
and (hmmmm) try to
cope.
We both know
you have every right to say no.
The Music of the Snow
by Yahya Kemal Beyatli
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
This melody of a night lasting longer than a thousand years!
This music of the snow supposed to last for thousand years!
Sorrowful as the prayers of a secluded monastery,
It rises from a choir of a hundred voices!
As the organ’s harmonies resound profoundly,
I share the sufferings of Slavic grief.
Then my mind drifts far from this city, this era,
To the old records of Tanburi Cemil Bey.
Now I’m suddenly overjoyed as once again I hear,
With the ears of my heart, the purest sounds of Istanbul!
Thoughts of the snow and darkness depart me;
I keep them at bay all night with my dreams!
Translator’s notes: “Slavic grief” because Beyatli wrote this poem while in Warsaw, serving as Turkey’s ambassador to Poland, in 1927. Tanburi Cemil Bey was a Turkish composer. Keywords/Tags: Beyatli, Agah, Kemal, Esrar, Turkish, translation, Turkey, silent, ship, anchor, harbor, ghosts, grief, Istanbul, moon, music, snow
Oct 30, 2020
Oct 30, 2020 at 4:28 AM UTC
and they escaped the weight of darkness peering over their shoulders
where do these people go,
what belongings do they pack
is there a limit on the heaviness of ones’ soul
Can they bring love
as parting gift?
Hide it in their handkerchiefs, and then go
Feb 22, 2017
Feb 22, 2017 at 1:54 AM UTC
The magician's basement was no more glamorous than my own.
Old couches, an untouched television.
One corner, however, holds some curiosities.
Loaded dice, trick decks, handkerchiefs.
Handcuffs, matches, rope, knives.
But his handcuffs hold no illusion, only my thin wrists.
They are hard and cold like any other pair
digging in, no escape.
There was no magic.
He offers to show me a trick.
How easy, I think now, it must be
to fool a seven year old girl.
I was tricked.
He told me once that magicians love the dark.
The black, he said, keeps their secrets hidden.
He told me to close my eyes,
and when I could finally open them,
there was no more light.
He hid me in the dark with the rest of his secrets, the rest of his tricks.
K.A.
Nov 5, 2014
Nov 5, 2014 at 1:55 AM UTC
They said high school was a home of learning
Oh I learned alright
They said it would construct my future
All it did was destroy me with the past
They said it would be safe
They have no defense over the demons
They said it would develop me as a person
But I remain who I was... only shattered
They said so many things, yet understood so little
This goes to the pillow-clutchers
to the broken who carry soaked and salty handkerchiefs
to the flesh that thrive for streaks of red dripping out
to the souls that are constantly bombarded by screeches of lies
Lies that overrun every beauty in and out
Lies that lead to masochistic actions
Waiting for the second heartbeat after every punch
Hoping this would free the monsters trapped within
This goes to the insecure
No, we are not emo
How can one contain our being in just three letters?
We are not superficial pain lovers
We are violated, dispirited, downhearted, beaten, unsettled, splintered, forgotten
But we will never be merely emo
A high school is not filled with students
It is filled with labels, rumors, divisions and fake personas
filled with eyes that look straight into your soul
filled with whispers that spread like a virus
Getting worse and worse after every ear it has jumped into
Savages looking for the flaw that can destroy you
Until you break and mindlessly follow their example
**High school is where you lose who you are
And be who everyone else wants you to be**
Everyone thought I was just being vain
Always staring at the mirror, trying to be cute
Never did it come into their minds that I was already believing the lies
ready to accept the rumors
using FINE as my own maxim
**** I'm Never Enough
But I waited
Waited for someone to drive out the beasts
to heal my scars
to fill my emptiness
Yet until now I remain drenched in loneliness and fear
High school is worse than hell
A quick and small crack in your soul hurts more
Than an eternal burn of your flesh
This is why we're ready to see the light come out of our eyes
But I'm holding on
For you need pain before you're declared strong
For you need darkness before you see the stars
For you need death before you reach heaven
For where there are angels,
there will always be demons
Nov 2, 2013
Nov 2, 2013 at 2:47 PM UTC
One day 250 years ago
a man talked to his grandfather.
A blind old man told his sons son a story
about how he saw flying handkerchiefs
and pretty women
a man in his smoking robe.
Apr 26, 2013
Apr 26, 2013 at 10:13 PM UTC
while standing, the realisation,
have got it wrong,
pale words a clue
in the breathing. the stone
set, left in barns.
caught the words,
hopefully in burning
hands,
thinking that the sky was clear,
wake to thundrous rain,
books tied closed
with string, broken
handkerchiefs.
concentration gone,
move now one
paragraph at a time.
earth and heaven.
sbm.
Jul 28, 2013
Jul 28, 2013 at 1:10 AM UTC
A young lady sashays across the kitchen floor .. Displaying a stunning , red Ball gown , beaming , contrarily to an fro , eager for a compliment from a proud seamstress . A fidgety young boy , hand -me -down jacket with slacks being tailored , patches cut , hand sewn at worn out knees ..Darning Papas socks , repairing a tablecloth , custom curtains , flour sacks made into napkins , aprons , quilts and handkerchiefs . A wicker box that belonged to very gifted hands indeed
Oct 7, 2015
Oct 7, 2015 at 3:31 PM UTC
ahoy,
all of you,
shoppers,
loafers,
lechers,
ladies...
could you please
tie your handkerchiefs
and dupattas*
together
and all of it
to the end
of a stone
and fling it to
this open window
?
?
?
so that I
can climb
down
and flee
What?
Louder!
Yes,
I could have
just asked
the boss
but escape
makes it
so much
more alive
You
See
I
need
such
kicks
from
time
to
time
May 8, 2016
May 8, 2016 at 9:19 AM UTC
Children scurried ***** as rats
From the long dead smouldering
of rocks and boulders
To watch captivated
Enraptured by the sight
Of tiny parachutes floated from the sky.
Tiny handkerchiefs of hope
Descended as gently as leaves in a breeze
As the candy bomber
Wiggled his wings
And presented sweet things
Packaged as hope
Delivered with love
To let those know that though
They may be woe begotten
To some at least they were not forgotten.
Mar 26, 2016
Mar 26, 2016 at 5:50 PM UTC
Driving Ms. Daisy
Absolutely drives me crazy.
Many a driver have come and vanished by noon.
Her cruel words are nothing but her ****** armour.
People hate her,
and she appears to love it.
Petite old Ms Daisy,
seems like she’ll forever be alone.
Today she asked of me to drive faster,
“I want to feel the wind against my face.
Take it up a notch”, she said.
“12miles/per hour,” she wailed.
Snub the rooster and wax the pole,
driving Ms Daisy is slow.
Really slow.
At times I fear that the machine may fail,
That the engine may even stop from being so frail.
Taking Ms Daisy someplace is like going nowhere,
because you aren’t moving enough to arrive anywhere.
Yesterday was the worst day ever;
her constant yelling and biting remarks
that only aimed to infuriate.
But Ms Daisy is always classy.
Her proud air of 16th century British Royalty.
Even her perfumed handkerchiefs spell eloquence.
But still, one day I wish she’ll suffer a heart attack,
Or maybe a mild stroke.
But then I wonder out loud,
“Who else will hire me and pay me this load?”
I may moan and rumble
but I am forever stuck with Ms Daisy.
Sep 28, 2015
Sep 28, 2015 at 2:32 PM UTC
Somedays, I hope my words mean nothing.
They are little glass figures of bunnies sniffing, and china plates my mother puts out when the better people come.
I hope me saying,
“I don’t want to get attached”
does not run about as an “I love you”,
let it be the napkin I spill my nausea into.
Don’t let it be my grandpa’s handkerchief.
These “I love you”’s are building up in my head, glasses, china plates, handkerchiefs.
These antique, vintage pieces keep stacking themselves up in my swollen breaths.
“I do not love you” runs around like the rainbows I see on acid. What a joke.
These “ifs” and “whys” and “buts” are hopping around like my glass bunny.
Poor words.
Feb 20, 2012
Feb 20, 2012 at 3:18 PM UTC
It’s been weeks,
and the refrigerator stands empty.
Except for our bed sheet,
nothing has remained on the clothesline-
everything else has been carried away
by the wind.
In the old parking lot,
strangers sometimes find bras and underwear.
Handkerchiefs and
your black socks.
It’s been weeks
and sometimes I accidentally reach out
to your side of the bed.
Nov 7, 2010
Nov 7, 2010 at 12:20 PM UTC
Grandmother’s chest in the attic,
Waiting for someone to come near her
Ears strained to hear the known footsteps
Vision blurred with cobwebs, but her spirit is not
May be there is something for you in there may be not,
But how will you know if you don’t reach out to it?
A quilt and some handkerchiefs
A world of soft cotton and lace
Hope and warmth embroidered in each one
May be you will find solace in them may be not
But how will you know if you don’t embrace them?
Some old wrinkled and some neatly packed clothes
They have more deals and tales
Than any book or shop
The soothing whiff of love, comforting whispers
Maybe you will find them enlightening may be not
But how will you know if you don’t let them express?
At the corner of the chest are some old memories
Some letters gone yellow; some brown
Some old pictures; of a naughty little girl on a swing
Of a free spirited woman before and after her marriage
Oh! the beautiful carefree past and their echoes
Maybe you will find some mantra in them maybe not
But how will you know if you don’t ask?
Hope, love, warmth, inspiration and some surprises in store
The old neglected chest can be full all this and more
An old set of dentures desperate to share her story
An old eye glass full of wisdom
This may be your lucky day may be not
You may find something valuable, may be not
But how will you know....
Jul 18, 2011
Jul 18, 2011 at 7:17 AM UTC
You found me
stuck staring
at rearview mirror reflections
of wintry, dusk intersections
of everything leaving me
all at once.
A forced exhale
of asphyxia caged
in collapsing lungs;
my mouth,
a fountain spring,
that coughed out
pools of blood.
I wish I saw myself
the way you saw me;
not a red traffic light
wounding speeding cars
on winding streets,
but an antique heirloom
priceless enough
you'd only wish
you could keep
in a heart-shaped box
you saw in dreams.
But, I'd cut my tongue,
paint my lips cherry shades
to blend with cells that'd stain
handkerchiefs you'd offer.
Make you believe
this isn't going to foster
because you are indecision,
unfinished watercolor landscapes
of summer forest fire skies,
a sun-kissed Pacific wanderer.
And I am true crime
untouched evidence of break-ins,
remains of faulty locks and lights.
I am mosaics misaligned;
static, seabed cracks
from forgotten fault lines.
Gaping fissures of sand,
and salt that won't let me stitch
frayed skin-deep fibres
barely holding me in.
Oceans would have to empty themselves
into whirring cyclones and high tides
for our selfish sense of touch to collide.
Ice caps would have to sink
deep enough to even bruise my skin.
And I wouldn't want to watch
more Shakespeare end
before it begins.
*See, I am the one
with sharp edges,
but why
did you have to be the one
to clip my wings?*
There is only an abyss
without a trampoline,
a safety net,
a bed of waterlilies,
I could fall in.
And I am so tired
of paradoxes
and ironies;
of always being wanted
by someone who doesn't even
want to be kept,
of always being mended
and then left
with more dislocations,
and fractures,
one after another
each taking longer to fix.
Now, in shapeless parcels,
without return addresses
sent out into the void
these words will echo
of love
I never intended to borrow,
and shadows
of false hope
you never thought yourself
capable of
giving away.
Jul 26, 2019
Jul 26, 2019 at 6:02 AM UTC
There was once a girl who had her peers’ approval: skin like silk and her eyes could be compared to a freshly polished wooden floor, her laugh could light up a whole town - the hearts of the broken. This girl’s heart was said to be golden – the kind of gold used to build the streets of Heaven, the kind the kings yearned for; delicate and sweet too, that heart of gold. The way this angel walked wasn’t **** nor was it seducing; the way this Mona Lisa walked: dumbfounding. The way this Mona Lisa walked: beautiful. The way this Mona Lisa walked: full of grace. Grace. She spoke of this word: grace. Grace to this girl was more than just a word, it was a lifestyle. She spoke of the grace of God and God’s grace descending upon His children. This wonderful girl – who spoke of God’s grace – had her peers’ approval, yet not her family’s. This dumbfounding girl, who did not have her family’s approval, started giving up on the grace of God. This girl whose laugh could bring life to the dead souls couldn’t find life in her own, couldn’t light up her own heart not made of gold, but of cheap metal, and it was rusting faster than God’s grace could find her. This graceless girl got tired of waiting for God’s grace to arrive. This graceless girl was yearning for the same gold the kings did. This graceless girl wanted to turn her heart to gold. This graceless girl wanted to touch the golden streets of Heaven. This graceless girl wanted to be one of “His children”. This graceless girl wanted to find the grace of God on her own terms.
Twenty four hours later.
There was once a girl who had her peers’ handkerchiefs and flowers. Her skin of silk was almost colder than her family’s hearts, not made of gold nor metal, but of ice. They would not go to her wedding (if she had one, they said).
She didn’t.
Instead, this girl who had her peers’ flowers in respect laid there exactly like a carcass: dead.
Jun 17, 2015
Jun 17, 2015 at 1:03 AM UTC
Resting on a stack of
original vinyl’s
a cowboy hat of black felt
the dresser was blonde with gold handles
a collection common in the 1960’s
a small turn table, red handkerchiefs
harmonica, guitar picks and cigarette papers
a diorama of his life
as kids, we would pull out the blue song folder
and sing Your Cheatin’ Heart
into an empty microphone stand
the aroma of rosin and pipe tobacco
guitar cases and Fender amps we dare not touch
when the babysitter’s boyfriend, one night
played Hey Good Lookin’ on the record player
I shot after him like a bear cub
my heart racing in my throat
saying I’m going to tell my Daddy!
a picture I drew found its place by
his fiddle, the one that
sits in my closet today, someday,
I will learn to play Lovesick Blues
because every time I hear that song
my dad is wearing his hat
tapping his feet
and singing like ol’ Hank Williams
Feb 10, 2014
Feb 10, 2014 at 3:44 PM UTC
With brain bashing into head cavity,
the gelatinous mass of neurons screams out
to white blood cells swimming in eyeballs
to evacuate before drowning.
"Quit clowning around in there and
save yourselves!"
The moody mistress creates her own hells:
congratulations!
Sleeping alone in a sweat covered bed,
she spins saccharine thoughts and pollutes her head
with taffy, thick like molasses,
cooking sugar in the kitchen with
the wrong end of a spoon in her mouth.
Dried up *** stains litter her couch
as she wakes up to turn the cushions
and search for loose change
to fill up her coin pouch.
"Ouch! Ouch!"
She calls out, clean
sheets on a new day,
his fingers firing in a frenzy
and introducing the fusion of
pleasure and pain.
He smells of benzene and
she's afraid of burning,
stomach churning and
using gasoline as lubricant.
He hit her, she said, and it felt like a kiss.
She misses him at her day job
when she runs around town
robbing banks and
picking up handkerchiefs
that grandmothers drop on the ground.
He would pound
his manhood into a brick wall
if it moved like her,
but the skin-and-bones combo
woos him to coo at her
as swarms of sparrows
nest in her ***** hair.
Spit shined shoes and
riding leaves blown on the air,
she dreams of him awake,
listless eyes alive and pulsing
behind a film of glassy, viscous mucus.
She makes magic potions out of the scents
left over on one of her
mismatching pillow cases.
He tastes like roasted red peppers
and lingering mace:
her eyes water as she
chokes back ***** daintily,
like a queen.
His eyes gleam mean as
he steals her breath to
add it to his bursting bank account,
releasing her to give her back only gasps,
the 2% interest.
She crafts road maps of his back bone while he sleeps,
but he sees her as a phantom,
creeping through the floorboards,
a faceless specter with an ace up her sleeve.
Apr 17, 2015
Apr 17, 2015 at 5:10 PM UTC
1. I stopped wearing mascara and eye-liner already.
2. There’s a ball within my gut that is benumbing my insides.
3. I look at my hands and they are trembling.
4. This is bad.
5. I’ve always known how fatal impulsion and indecision are but I never listen to myself.
6. I have my walls up but the dragon is inside, slaying every beauty I fabricated with his gigantic strength.
7. I bring handkerchiefs everywhere I go now.
8. This is bad.
9. I had been given three cards to bring into play in order for me to save myself.
10. I’ve used them all already.
11. This is bad.
12. I’m still trembling.
13. The dragon wouldn’t have been here to slaughter me and my kingdom if I hadn’t invited him in.
14. I hear his words over and over again. They sing melodies of his beautiful promises and endearments. Did I make them up inside my head? Why won’t they stop?
15. A tear left a **** across my cheek. I didn’t wear mascara.
16. It’s dark. Did the light burn out?
17. This is bad.
18. There has been an explosion from my innards. I’m all over the place. My pieces are everywhere.
19. I thought he was a prince. How could the dragon’s disguise look so real? I fixed my gaze at him (or it?) and he (or it) looked so gentle. Why is he (or it) burning my garden with his fire breath that is this cold?
20. I used to not bring handkerchiefs. I always lose them. But I have to now.
21. It’s so dark. I can’t see. Where is the light?
22. I’m lost.
23. This is bad.
24. I don’t need handkerchiefs. The tears are overflowing and they’re making an ocean around me.
25. This ocean is drowning me and I’m slowly reaching the depths of it. Will I ever re-surface?
26. I’m drowning. There’s no more air in my lungs.
27. I see the dragon. It’s hovering over me. Does he also want to wreck this ocean? Like my kingdom was just his warm up?
28. This darkness seems better than the light.
29. I can only be saved thrice. I’ve been saved thrice already.
30. Is this my end?
May 21, 2014
May 21, 2014 at 10:11 PM UTC
father shined his shoes
we ironed handkerchiefs
by the dozen shirt collars
underwear so white and loose
child noise song not allowed
we did not know he missed being
artist bad boy free
sole beloved of his woman
now mothering too many
his own left too soon
the boy to hurt forever
to pass that truth along
as best he could
Oct 20, 2014
Oct 20, 2014 at 7:38 AM UTC